Sarcasm Unmasked

I've never been serious, really I haven't. Its just too much work to always mean what you say when you mean. Or if I were to take it to the opposite extreme I would say everything and mean nothing of it when I say it. THAT would be complicated, because when I speak and think at the same time I spew gibberish into vaulable air. Air and time we can't waste! But then again if I don't think and speak then words are wasted on unwanted things. So to mean nothing when I say it but to mean things after when I think is a very odd thought process. If I think to much then I don't make sense, but not to think at all.... thats a thought.

Dangerous thought are quite usual for the sleeper's Eye. In their mind's sight lays a target of nothing but mist. Each thought a driving arrow, searching for the target. The calm gaze and mocking laughter. A killer's eyes that rest easily on those that would and could be victims. But choose careufly as they are for playing this game can be fatal. Each step coreographed with a pupose in mind. Each piece moved with stratigical ease. A chess game with deadly results. Pawns, rooks, bishops and the most terrifying piece. The Queen. The Queen that swoops down with ease on other pieces claiming them. Gold hardly rivals this game. A slight pause, another move. The calmness is deceptive, beaneath that clam lake lies a deadly shark. A crouching tiger. Checkmate.

The rants of a tree are quite interesting, if you stop to listen. Place your hands on the bark, feeling the worn and torn trunk. Each niche with a story to tell. The leaves whipser in the wind, calling the seedlings and flowers to bloom. An aged old being, with a story to tell. Sit down and listen to the rants of a tree.

I met sarcasm once. A tall imposing figure with a cowl shrouding it. Like a very being of misery, but paint on the darkness you could see laughter and mirth. A malicious kind of words that fall from its mouth. Sarcasm has quick wit and an even fastertongue. If only it could think as fast as its tongue waggled dropping words off every second. Each word that hit home with accuracy even a champian archer could wish for at forty marks. The laughter and teasing are easier to bear with then the truth. Sarcasm is never serious, nor sad or angry. But always tottering on the edge of insaneity and perfect clarity. I've unmkased Sarcasm as well. The age old face and timely smirk. The haunted teasing look in the eyes. Sarcasm is nothing but what you make it. And its words are nothing unless you take offense to it.

True people. I've never met a true person, whose mind and heart are one. Whose tongue is fastened behind a bar of solid common sense. A true person doesn't use masks. Masks to hide behind and to hurt. Masks the never reveal yourself. I've never met a true person.

I live not a life. My eyes are mine own, seeing as far as I can. But my mind wanders. An act is all life is as William Shakespear said "All the world's a stage, and men and women merely players. They have their exits, their entrances, and one man in his life may play many parts," An act, a play. But life is a malicious play at that. You use everything for yourself, trying to be the best. A competition with no end. All resources are expendable and you fight for the goal which is never there. A malicious play with no end. Life will play itself out someday, but not in my lifetime nor my children's. It is a fascinating game of twists and turns that warp the product. Of death and famine, sorrow and despair. Of happiness and joy, love and humor. An act is all. Few will step beyond their act, few will release the shell that life and forced aroun you. Caonstant trials that mkae up your script. The pen is always writing, always copying down. Your memory is burned with every detail. Some painful and others enjoyable. Life is a game, one that you have to be very good at. You can meet people, and know then inside and out. But will you use them? Manipulate them into seeing you as a different person? Or are you another pawn? I will never be prey, but I will never be a true predator. Predators that mercilessly tear out the hearts of others. Prey that cowers. No, I will be an individual. My acts and scripts new and exotic with turns that no one could ever imagine. The warped and twisted depthes of my mind editing the script, new casting calls with every move. But this game I will win at, I have a lifetime to play.

Friends are odd people. One can never tell. But a friend is one that listens... or doesn't but you can call them a friend. Most people are aquantences, people you meet. Others are just names and faces in the sea of life. But friends, those are important. People who you depend on for fun, leisure activities and advice. Fights may occur, and a misplaced word but true friends stay. Is there such a thing as a best friend? Or is that just a way to discriminate between good friends and really good friends? I can never tell. So I just have friends, aquantinces and names with faces.

Fading Flowers

Life has no end it seems. The constant pushing for people to get their way. No one stops anymore for enjoyment. Always work, school, relax (sleep) work some more... No one notices the joy of being /alive/. Life should be a constant reminder of /why/ we are there. The calm whisper of escape. Life has pressure, some people try to escape it for good, but that wouldn't do anything. The pressure makes us human, makes us have a goal, a final destination. We are what we are and nothing else. So life has little escapes to remind us of what we are reaching for. Taunted by the grapes that hang jus to high, or the water that is too far away. To escape, one immerses themselves in another world. Writing, reading, even the smallest of daydreams. They all make Life worth its weight. You can't change people, you can try but no one will submit totally to you. Never change, never die, never say anything. The mute thoughts that stray to suicide. They wouldn't do any good. Life shapes your character, it makes you the way we are. We may hate it, but it is something to do. If life was perfect....... what would be the reason of living?

A task to impossiable, a task to hard to try. A world ununited with certainly die. If we kill each other, with equal fervor as we attack our problems we are for sure goners. Our problems lie not in each other, but in the world around us. In the never ending spiral of change. Our world will reject us if more blood is spilled in meaningless battles of minor things. If our arms were to stretch wider, accept more and to will the flow of /change/ then we will flourish. Otherwise we will flicker like a candle and die. This task is not impossiable, just stretch a little.

Who are we? Are we all just figments of thoughts? Randome pictures and bio-material plastered together? Each on intertwined in some impossiable way with the other? Or are we real? Sometimes it seems like all a dream. The subconsious playgroad of merry-go-wheels and dances. Of freedom and vacation. Other times nightmares, the garrish colors and sounds swirling into an easel of terror. Nothing is real, or is everything real? Are we truly human? Are are humans nothing more then another failed perfect species? We tamper to much for our won good. Poking here and there, playing with this and that. Things that don't concern us. Who cares if we can makes rabbits glow in the dark? Maybe we are just part of a bigger thought process. Think about it, are we real?

Fear, an icy feeling that comes from your mind. Several actions and trigger this feeling. But most importantly is the thought/threat that your life is in jeopardy. Why is that? When the thought of death comes along we tuck our tails between our legs and slink off. We, who can bomb each other of the planet run when the very thought of it appears. The sensation of sinking deeper into a hole of despair. The fear consuming you from inside out. The images and illusions to far sunk into your mind to get rid off. Digging your own grave. Haunted looks, sadended by their own ideas. Fear is nothing more then an emotion, wether it be ridiculous or total reality. Fear is nothing. Only what happens next is important. There is nothing to fear, but fear itself.

Anger is a blank emotion. The raging fire that burns itself out, the smoldering feeling of deep loss maybe. Or even hate, loathing. We are capable of such emotions, only by our own minds. It is an emotion, nothing more. Nothing harmful, unless you let the fire eat you. Consume you. Destroy you. It is like other emotions, nothing more then the electrons running through your body making you repsond. Nervousness, sadness other emotions are triggered. But none of them are truyl material. They pass and change as the seasons. But always within boundaries. Do not let emotion rule you more then a second, or the fire will rage on.